The Hermione Diaries
by Ishuca
Summary: A series of journal entries detailing thoughts on love, pain, growth, and friendship. FEMSLASH.


Warnings: FEMSLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: Hr/G, Hr/R  
  
Spoilers: Sort of vaguely through 4th book.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. The characters- I borrow.

**The Hermione Diaries**

**Entry One:**

I said 'no' to him today, watched his face smolder and burn.

"Is it Viktor?" he asked, waving his hands at me, telling me exactly what he thought of my love interest.

Love interest.

It would be so much easier if Viktor were. But he isn't, and I don't know why. I should be interested in him, in someone, anyone. Not my books.

My first love was a character from a book, some fantasy epic that I read because a teacher told me it was too difficult. That I was too young. That it was beyond me.

Well, it wasn't.

And I fell in love.

I tucked the book under my pillow every night, dreaming of that figure, clad in diamond-shining armor, fighting for justice and survival.

Thinking back now, it was like us. Like Harry. But different. Harry, you see, would have been some other character. Ron, too. I don't know who I would have been.

I dreamed in color every night, meeting my love, fighting, struggling, winning the war. And every day I read like my life depended on it, because it did. I thought I would die if. . . No. The book ended, and I began the next. An injury! If I were there I could have done something, I knew all about medicine (well, maybe not all), I could have helped.

And then it was over, and she married a prince. Or almost a prince. We're all expected to marry princes. I still think of her, more than I should. She isn't real, and I am, and there is nothing more to say than that. Except. . . except sometimes I whisper her name, "_Eowyn_."

**Entry Two:**

Ron's still mad at me. People say that he's like a volcano, blowing up and cooling down quickly. He's not, though. He's only like a volcano in intensity, never in actuality. He is more like a White Out. Snow flying so thick you can't see, can't hear, can't even breathe. And even after the storm has passed, the white covers everything, smothering life and struggling bodies under its blanket.

He says that I don't understand, but it's really he who walks in clouded daydreams. He is so oblivious. I _should_ love him, or at least one of them. But I can't. I just. . . can't. And it hurts so very very much. They are my best friends. I would die for them; never marry them.

One is always out chasing snowflakes. He catches them in his palms, face glowing at the capture, and cradles his ice fairies. It always comes as a surprise to him when he opens his hands, empty. His fairies never leave him anything but tears.

The other dives into love like he's flying, not caring if everyone else in the world can see the message he's scrawled across the sky. He is honest, foolishly so. Flying never catches anything but clouds.

And I wait, sandwiched between them, overshadowed by my bookcases and smart comments, a being asexual, unsure, and waiting. I still don't know what I'm waiting for.

**Entry Three:**

My father is making breakfast in the kitchen. Something appropriate for Christmas Day, he says. It doesn't feel like Christmas without the others, but I had to escape from the storm. The snow was choking me, making me numb.

Mum and Dad joke, happily discuss the latest in oral surgery techniques, their conversation punctuated by snide comments about my 'new' teeth. Three years and they're still bitter, like badgers whose territory has been invaded. They quiet down now, silently respecting my homework. It's funny how my studying gets more respect than I do.

Dad is flipping pancakes now, a treat rarer than diamonds in this household. Mum is sprawled over the recliner, reading the very latest in Regency trash. It is her guilty, dirty secret that we all know about. Every so often she looks up at Dad and sighs, her forefinger pressed into the book like an accusation. She loves him, I know. I just wonder in what way.

**Entry Four:**

February is like a living death. The pure whiteness of December and January has descended into grey. The sky is a bluebird lurking behind clouds, the sun a masked face, and the earth a sleeping giant.

And I miss them. I miss me. How is it possible to miss your own self? Where did I go? Did I escape off to some emerald fantasy, abandoning this empty husk behind a dusty bookshelf? Or have I just bled into grey?

I want myself back. I want what he stole when he thundered on about love and shoulds and things that I was supposed to want. How could he know what I want when even I don't know?

Harry is just confused, so confused that he doesn't notice how he hurts me when he whispers his advice. "Just give him a chance, Hermione."

It's not about chances, it's about cans and cannots. Harry, of all people, should know that. But if he did, he wouldn't go off chasing snowflakes. I do know, so I make love to my books, sheltered in the embrace of their brittle pages.

**Entry Five:**

He is off chasing rainbows and Ravenclaws again, oblivious to her stares. He has no idea how much he hurts her. Ron knows, but does nothing. As much as she might ache, she is Ron 


End file.
